Smarter men don't mean smarter decisions
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: The first fic you see where Ford makes a good decision almost without any help! I'm messing you guys, kinda. Ford calls to Stan with the postcard, but for a reason entirely different from the canon reason. Sorry, it's better than summary, I think. Maybe. :) T for Stan Pines. Because anything with Stan is angsty.
1. Chapter 1

**HELLO! *Flies from the sky, swooping down to land in front of you* I RETURN! Let's do this: TW: Stan Pines during his homeless days...ya'll should know what that means...  
**

* * *

Stan stared at the black bag, contemplating.

Stanley Pines knew how to take a hit. It was something everyone learned during boxing practice, and if you couldn't? You failed the class because you can't win if you can't handle a bit of pain.

Nowadays, failing usually meant starvation, _real_ pain, or death. Stan wished he still worried about grades and how Ford was gonna react every time he came home with a new shiner. The days when making sure your laundry was done was one of the most important things on your daily list. Stan couldn't recall the last time he had done laundry, and the thought made him scoff at himself in disgust. What had he become? A criminal? A dirty hobo with not even a candlelight of hope to draw him out of this disastrous situation? Everywhere he turned he was hunted or chased away. Not even the lowliest of scum wanted him in their set, 'tainting their good name'.

Stan sighed. Nothing he did or tried to do made any difference. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't just off himself years ago.

The thought spun around in his mind and he shook his head, clearing it. If there was something he stuck by, it was surviving. Surviving the insults, the wounds, surviving the snow or the sun beating down on his back, just...surviving.

Stan once heard someone say that surviving wasn't living, but he was alive, wasn't he? Breathing and walking and talking himself into trouble? How was that not living?

Stan Pines had forgotten what it was to truly live and he didn't care.

Placing his right leg behind him, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, Stan scrunched his shoulders in and pulled his arms up next to his face. Jab, jab, punch. Jab, jab, punch, left-hook, pivot, kick. Stan threw everything he had into to the large black punching bag and didn't stop until his arms were aching and his leg was bruised. He fell backward, collapsing on the dusty bed, panting.

He was exhausted, and he knew that he would ache like high-heaven in the morning, but it was the only way he could get himself to relax. Otherwise, he would stay up, tensed and waiting for something. He wasn't even sure what exactly...just something.

...

Stan woke up to a knock at the door. He was out of bed immediately, ready to strike out with the bat he had in his right hand. He slept with the thing, it was the only way he felt safe doing so.

He didn't relax much, maybe slightly when he heard footsteps lead away from the door. Walking up, he looked to the ground to see mail. Wait...mail? Since when did he get mail?

He swooped down and picked up the single piece of paper Stan assumed was the mailman, had left on his floor.

It was a postcard for some place called Gravity Falls Oregon. Stan raised a brow and flipped it over. He'd never heard of the place.

Turning on the bedside lamp, he took a good look at it. His heart stopped and his mouth fell open with an audible _pop!_

The small piece of paper read " **PLEASE COME- FORD** " In large handwriting. Stan felt his mind stop moving. Ford, as in Stanford? As in the twin he hadn't seen in over a decade? Why on earth would Ford...?

Oh screw it, Stan didn't really care.

He didn't smile as he packed, he didn't dare let himself hope. Hope had nearly killed him in the past. It was more likely that Ford needed something. Stan knew they were both too stubborn to just snap back together. Especially Ford, who had trouble with emotions in the first place.

Placing the duffle bag over his shoulder (he didn't really have much to pack, although he did take the small bottles of hair-care products. You never really know when you might need them.) He walked out of the run-down motel and didn't look back.

...

The drive all the way up to Oregon from Mexico was long and exhausting, but Stan didn't stop. Something, a fire of necessity, pushed him forward as if stopping would mean his doom. He didn't stop when he felt his stomach rumble or when his throat tickled from the lack of water, making him cough and nearly swerve off the road. He barely stopped himself to refill the gas tank when it started running low. He was back in the car in a flash, refusing to waste time on something as menial as food or water. He had gone without both for longer than this anyway.

By the time Stan drove past the welcome sign into _Gravity Falls, nothing to see here, folks!_ Stan could have cried in joy, had he any water left in his system to waste on tears, that is.

He parked the car in the grass beneath the sign that spelled out ' _Gopher Road'._ The trail up there was narrow and slick from ice. When had it gotten so cold? Either way, he didn't want to reck the car trying to drive up there, better to walk than risk his only shelter.

Stan hadn't stepped out of the car for several days, and his legs wobbled beneath him as he clambered out, ignoring the bite of the chilled wind as it froze his hands and face. He gritted his teeth when he nearly fell over, berating himself for being so weak. However, he couldn't resist taking a long draught of water from the snow beneath him, letting it melt in his mouth. Even he couldn't go without some water for very long.

Sighing in satisfaction, he pulled himself together and started walking. He had wasted enough time on himself. He already felt better, the cold numbing his aching muscles.

He trecked the best he could up the trail, getting a little nervous when he still didn't see anyth- there! Over the hill, he saw a flash of something. He moved faster, not really caring when it wasn't much faster than the trudge he had been doing before.

He made it to the top and a grin overtook his features. A large cabin was sitting behind a metal fence, snow piled on top of the roof and smoke coming from the chimney. The place, to Stan, but maybe not to another, looked comfortable and homey, but that wasn't why he was happy. He ran (more like stumbled) through the gateway and tripped trying to get up the stairs. He had no right to be so excited, but expectations or no, _his brother was in that house._

Knocking on the door without much preamble, he waited for someone to answer.

Maybe, had he been thinking on a full stomach, or even just more than a handful of water, Stan would have thought to clean himself up a bit, but Stan...well. He looked a right mess, to be sure. His jacket was filthy and torn, doing nearly nothing in keeping out the cold. He was skinny and although he didn't notice, his legs still shook, but not with cold.

His face was scruffed up, on the edge of his cheek, coming up from behind his ear you could see a faint pink line, one of his more recent scars. His hair was greasy and gross, coming all the way down to his shoulders and the bags beneath his eyes screamed _insomnia!_

Stan looked like a dead man walking. Still, he did not care. This was the most excited he had been about anything for ten long years, and he wasn't going to waste it over- analyzing.

His grin widened when the door creaked open to reveal an alive and well Stanford Pines.

Stan had gotten really good at noting things about people. It helped, out on the streets when you weren't sure who to trust. Well, Stan noted that Ford looked...good. He had definitely aged up from the nerd he used to be. He still had nerd glasses, but they fit him. Like they belonged there, unlike the too large ones he wore as a child. He wore a warm red sweater and a weather-worn trenchcoat. His hair was brushed and the smile that had been there for all of two seconds was warm and inviting. To conclude, he looked the exact opposite of his twin, who was on the verge of collapsing.

Stan wasn't sure what to do when Ford's smile swiftly moved to an expression of horror. His immediate thought was that maybe he had made a mistake, that Ford didn't really want him, that the postcard had been a fluke, an error of judgment-

"Stanley! Are you alright?" Ford shook his head, "idiotic question, why do people ask that?" Ford mumbled. He grasped Stan's arm near the shoulder when Stan nearly fell backward in surprise.

"Stanley! You look absolutely awful! When I said 'please come' I didn't mean for you to neglect yourself in the process!" Ford shook his head again, this time in a sad sort of fondness. "You always were an extremist." Ford kept talking as he led in a shell-shocked Stanley into the living room and forced him to sit on the couch.

"Do you know how long I've been looking for you, Stan? I've searched for years! You are way to good at covering your tracks, you know that? But now you're here!" Ford smiled like a child who finally got to see their favorite aunt again. His smile fell slightly when Stan didn't respond, but it returned, albeit softer than before.

"I'm going to be right back, alright? Don't move. We're going to get you cleaned up a bit and then I want you to meet me, associate, if you're willing." Ford nodded to himself as he left, leaving a stumped Stanley on his couch.

 _What the frell just happened? Ford's been looking for me? He-but-WAIT A MOMENT. WHAT IS GOING ON._

As you can see, Stan still wasn't sure what to think.

Ford, on the other hand, was very relieved, and in a bit of shock himself. He walked into the guest room and retrieved some of the spare clothes he stored there. He knew that Stan was probably going to be a bit on the shabby end. What else would you expect from a homeless man? Yes, Ford knew Stan had been homeless. Why else would it have taken years for Ford to find him? Ford just didn't expect him to be in such sad shape. It made his heart-ache in fear and worry. Stan was definitely underfed, probably dehydrated and needed a shower. (And a hair-cut, but they could discuss the mullet another time.)

Now, if you haven't caught on already, Ford had been prepared to house his brother for a long, long time. The clothes he had stored away were specifically for Stan (Ford figured he could get away with purchasing the same size, although now he wished he had gotten a size smaller.) and he even had little details down, like a punching bag if Stan was still into boxing.

The first few years, Ford had been angry- no. Furious. He thought that Stan had gotten what he had deserved. Yet, as the years went by, and he got more accustomed to the ways of the world, Ford saw more and more of the life he had banished his brother into. Starvation and homelessness, drug rings and petty criminal activity were just the beginning. It was really Fiddleford who made the final decision for him, convincing him to look for Stan. What were older brothers for if not to take care of the other? Ford knew he had failed already, but he hoped to make up for it.

Fiddleford had been staying with him for...going on six years now. Ford had called him up from where he had been hopping from job to job, selling machinery patents to the government to keep afloat. Fiddleford was a true mechanical genius. Ford asked him if he would assist him up in Oregon studying the supernatural. After a little convincing: (AAAH! What is that thing?!...It's a gnome Fiddleford.) Fiddleford had been completely on board. Neither of them had ever gotten bored either, discovering new things every day for the last six years. It helped they had both been searching for Stan in the meantime.

Now Stan was here. Ford had told all sorts of stories about him to Fidds, who was more than ready to meet the man who kicked a principal in the shins for bullying another teacher. Ford shook his head fondly again, not seemingly able to remove the smile from his face. Before he went downstairs back to Stan (who he hoped hadn't run away, he knew he was acting uncharacteristic, but he was really happy to see Stan alive) Ford knocked the door to Fiddleford's bedroom. Getting a bit carried away in his excitement.

"Wha's it now, Stanferd? Can I go back ta sleep now?" Fiddleford yawned, having been awoken by Ford's excessive knocking.

"Fiddleford! It's Stanley! He's here!" Ford bounced on his sock covered feet (who wear's shoes inside?) to excited to dial it down. Fiddleoford's eyes widened,

"Really? Well, I never thought I'd see the day! I'll be down directly, Stanferd." Fiddleford closed the door and Ford walked back to the living room.

His excitement faltered slightly when he saw how distraught, uncomfortable, and ill Stanley looked. Stan looked up from over the couch, his dark brown eyes filled with conflicting emotion.

"Ford? Is that really you?" Stan's voice sounded parched and scratched. As if from months of non-use. Ford could see how confused Stanley felt and Ford placed the clothes to the side to sit by his brother, holding out his hand.

"Yes, Stanley. It's me. I-I have to apologize, I was so excited to see you I didn't bother explaining much of anything, did I?" Stan shook his head and Ford huffed a laugh.

"Yes, well. The story goes like this. I've been searching for you for eight _years_ Stanley. Fiddleford, my friend and work associate, he's upstairs now, helped me. He was the one who convinced me really. He helped me see past my anger, Stanley. Because I was. I was furious, for years after you left, but I now know I was wrong, and I'm sorry Stanley. I'm so sorry!" Ford jumped up from the couch, his features overcome with sorrow, the severity of everything hitting him with full force in that moment. "I'm sorry I abandoned you like I did, I'm sorry I was never there for you. I-I'm so sorry Stanley." Ford buried his head in his hands, holding back tears as he sat back down. He didn't look up until he heard a sound.

Laughter. Stan was laughing.

What?

Stan was laughing, head bowed backward with the force of it, his eyes clenched shut and his arms folded over his chest as if he were trying to contain his mirth. Ford watched on, speechless.

"Um, Stanley?"

Stan calmed down at that, wiping the tears that had sprung from his chuckles from his eyes. He hiccuped and opened his arms out towards Ford. "I- I missed you too, Poindexter."

Ford felt his own eyes water as joy swelled within him and he accepted the hug happily. He felt something within him he hadn't felt for a long time.

Peace.

Ford leaned away and wiped away the unshed tears. "I missed you, Stanley, but you _reek."_ Ford grinned cheekily and Stan threw a punch into his arm without much force.

"Oh haha, Mr. Funny guy over here thinks he's all that huh?" Stan smirked.

Stan knew things weren't going to be perfect. They never were, but he thought maybe he finally had gotten his happy ending. Being here, now, he remembered the old saying 'surviving is not living.' and he thought he finally understood.

He could finally start living.

* * *

 **...Idk.**

 **Stan: I don't understand what just happened.**

 **Ford: I can say that I don't understand either without feeling embarrassed, what just happened?**

 **Me: I don't know. *shrug* (Also me: I think I wanna do another chapter, so I might revise this to accommodate one, or just post another. I want Stan to meet fidds.)**


	2. Chapter 85,000

**Hehe, I made another chapter. Are you sure you want it?**

* * *

Stan's breath hitched as he pulled the white T-shirt over his head. Every limb, every muscle in his body was stiff, making every movement ache.

After their very emotional (Ugh) reunion, Ford told Stan to go ahead and get dressed in the clothes he had provided. Stan was much too happy to do so. The shirt and jeans he had been wearing before hadn't been cleaned properly in...

Well, he tried not to think about it.

As soon as the shirt fell into place, something felt _wrong._ As if it didn't belong there. He realized that although the shirt was clean, he certainly wasn't.

Stan shrugged to himself. Although Ford had already informed him that Stan was in no way allowed to leave Ford ever again {Ever ever again...But!...No buts.} Stan wasn't too eager to make himself at home just yet. It didn't help he hadn't met Ford's...'associate' yet, whoever that was.

He grimaced at the thought of meeting a new person. Don't get me wrong, Stanley was very much a people person.

Was.

Nowadays, people were bad news. Or just people more idiotic than him he could scam for a few dollars, in all honesty, Stan got nervous around people. People couldn't be trusted.

People were dangerous.

 _C'mon! It's only Ford's friend, how bad can it be? If he's anything like Ford, he'll be great! Just gotta, gotta keep an open mind._ Stan thought to himself as he folded the old, ratty outfit and held it in his arms. Ford hadn't told him what to do with it. _Whatever, I'll just hold it._

Stan preferred to keep what little he owned close by anyway.

He opened the bathroom door quickly. _Might as well get this over with._ He stepped out into the hallway and padded silently down the corridor.

...

Fiddleford, after getting dressed properly (No one looked very good after falling asleep in a suit) made his way to the living room, where he found Ford sitting alone.

The nervous smile fell from his features as he looked around. Ford noted his presence after a moment and grinned,

"Fiddleford! Apologies, I made him change. The clothes he was wearing were filthy." Ford bit his lip. "You have to promise not to scream when you seem him, okay? I know you don't like it when people go without..."

Fiddleford raised a skeptical brow, "And why on earth would I scream about that? I already know he was homeless Stanferd-"

Ford raised his hands placatingly, "I know, I know, but ah- he looked worse than I thought he would. He-" Ford cut himself off when he heard a knock.

Stan himself was standing in the hallway, hand on the wall where he knocked on it. "Uh, hey." His eyes flitted over to where Fiddleford was standing. "Whose the matchstick man?"

Fiddleford barely registered the nickname, one he wasn't sure to be offended by or not, he was too busy biting back a scream of horror.

He looked exactly like Ford, but if Ford had been tortured, killed, buried, then came back from the dead. He couldn't possibly tease Fiddleford for being skinny, not when he was nothing but bone and raw muscle. Fiddleford looked into the dark pits of his eyes and shuddered. They looked like they had seen too much, been through too much. The only reason Fiddleford had to suspect that he was alive was the faint moving of his chest and a smile that was quickly falling as Fiddleford didn't answer.

Ford spoke up for him as Fiddleford got over his horror. "Ahem, Stan, meet Fiddleford Mcgucket- my work associate and friend these last six years..." Ford gave him an encouraging smile and Fiddleford finally managed to open his mouth.

"Ya look awful! When was the last time ya had a meal?" Fiddleford, before Ford could stop him, walked right up to Stan and grabbed him by the wrist. Stanley was so surprised he didn't stop it when Fiddleford pulled him into another room. Ford groaned from behind them, he didn't want to overwhelm his brother as soon as he got there! Stan wasn't one for...charity.

The new room happened to be a kitchen and Fiddleford flipped on the light before sitting Stan down in a chair. Were his legs not so weak, he might have resisted. Ford sat beside him and leaned inward conspiratorily as Fiddleford muttered under his breath about _'those Pines men and their lack of self-care'_.

"Sorry about Fiddleford, he's worse than our mother. Much worse. He makes me eat at least one meal a day..." Ford looked up at Fiddleford with a mutinous look and Stan rolled his eyes.

"Sorry about what? I've never been forced into a chair for a better reason!" Stan didn't want to mention that he had been forced to sit for many, many, less pleasant reasons before. "I mean, not what I expected, but I'm glad someone was taking care of you." Stan snickered. Ford huffed and crossed his arms as he leaned back in the chair.

"Ya have good sense Stanley, I guess I can't blame ya for being skinny," Fiddleford said. He seemed to have heard Stan, who laughed.

"Who else are ya gonna blame, Fiddlesticks? I was the one dumb enough to think there was an emergency up here and that if I didn't rush someone would, I dunno, blow up or something."

Ford interjected, "It was an emergency! You! Don't you agree, Fiddleford? Isn't his health a dire emergency?" Ford smirked at Stan's horrified expression.

"No no no, you do not get to-"

"I'd have ta say it is!" Fiddleford turned on the stove and started pulling vegetables out of the fridge, along with a flat of chicken. "And soup always good fer an emergency, ain't it?" Fiddleford pulled out a knife and a cutting board and began chopping. Stan winced, but no one noticed.

Despite this, Stan thought this was going surprisingly well if he was being honest. He had no idea what to expect when he rushed up here, but reestablishing {so quickly} a relationship with his brother, and being mother-henned by his brother's friend wasn't even on his list.

The two aforementioned men were beginning to banter, in a familiar way it seemed to Stan, and Stan sat back, letting his mind relax. He didn't notice when his eyes first shut, but soon his breathing evened out and he fell asleep.

He didn't wake up when the talking stopped, or when he was lifted out of the chair, or somehow ended up under several sheets in a clean bed, and pillow underneath his head. Stan Pines slept through it all, feeling, for the first time in ten years, that he was safe.

Yes, everything ached, he was still wanted in several states, he still hadn't become a millionaire, and now he had two nerds to protect, but all of that didn't matter. He was forgiven.

He was home.

* * *

 **Stan: ...**

 **Ford: Well that was...**

 **Me: MmHmm.**

 **Stan: This feels like there are undertones of angst and possibilities of it continuing. Will it?**

 **Me: Probably not. Maybe. I'm impulsive, remember? Eh, hoped ya'll don't think it sucked or anything. Don't die!**

 **Ford: Please, don't die. Don't let her kill you-*I clap a hand over his mouth***

 **Me: hehe, don't listen to him he doesn't know what he's talking about...*evil smirk in the background***

 **Stan: *Pushes me away from Ford* What on earth are you doing!?**

 **Me: SHHH! YOU WILL REVEAL MY EVIL PLANS! *realizes I screamed* Oops.**

 **Lol, I'm kidding all, I don't have any evil plans. Don't expect more of this story, unless you are super awesome and review with awesome long reviews that beg for another chapter. Hey, hey. Not being serious. A regular review would be fine. ;) Sorry all, I'm being weird today, hope you enjoyed!**


	3. Chapter 10

**My cats kept me up all night *head bobbing to non-existent music* Lala, I love my evil cats. ( Thank you all for your awesome reviews and for reading my weird stories!)  
**

* * *

Stan was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, frowning at his reflection.

He had woken from his impromptu nap just a few moments ago. The morning light was already rising from the east and shining through the small windows of the cabin. Stan had only slept a couple hours, but he felt more rested and awake than he had in a long time.

He had decided, after slipping out of the warm bed, to go and clean up properly. Sure, Fiddlesticks might have glared at him for not eating first, but he really wasn't all that hungry. Plus, the soup Fidds had made would still be down there in an hour or so.

Stan really liked that Fidds guy. He had good priorities.

Now he was standing in the bathroom, his shirt hanging on the towel rack. He had meant to just hop in the shower and get it over with, but he had caught a look at his torso in the mirror and now his gaze was fixated on the horror that was his chest.

There were plenty of small, white scars there, but the ones that had his attention were the three largest ones. The smallest of the trio of pain happened to be a bullet wound. He could still hear the ringing in his ears when he fell backward from the force of the shot. It had pierced his right shoulder. He had nearly died.

His fingers traced over the second, a word carved into his skin. He shuddered and forced the memories away. That was not something he wanted to remember. Ever.

The third was something he was proud of. Something that made him smile.

It enveloped most of his leg, but the edges of the scar were visible on his higher hip.

It was a third-degree burn, the flesh marred over pink and wiry. Like a mesh net had been seared into his skin. The day he had received it, there had been a fire in a three-story house. Everything was on fire, and you could feel the heat from across the street. Someone had called the fire department, but the fire raged forward quickly, escalating from bad to worse in a matter of seconds. Stan watched on from across the street, where he had been using it as an opportunity to warm up. It wasn't like there was anyone in the house anyway, and it was a cold winter night with no heat from his car. To him, it was like a giant, expensive bonfire. {Exspensive for the owners, anyway.} He had settled down on the grass, watching the flames devour the old wooden shelter when he heard it.

A cry.

Looking up to the windows, he searched for the cause of the noise, but he couldn't see anything past the flames and smoke. He heard it again, and glanced at the other people around him, wondering if they had heard it too, or if they had caused the sound. His eyes widened when a man pointed at the building and screamed,

"Someone's inside!"

Stan looked around once more and saw the red and blue lights of police cars from several streets down, and he could hear the large engines of the fire-trucks as they made their way to the house. They were still several streets away {the house had been fairly far out from town} and Stan knew how fast fire worked. Even the smoke could kill you within minutes.

He didn't really make a conscious choice, he just ran. He ran as hard as his tired legs would carry him. He quickly jumped his way in through a window {no time to wrestle with a door} and landed inside the burning building.

It was _hot._ Like, really, really hot. But he barely noticed, adrenaline making him numb. He could barely hear the cries of mercy through the creaking and shattering of burning wood, but they were there, and he ran toward them, holding his breath as best he could. Best not to ruin his lungs any more than he already had by smoking. {He'd quit that habit a while ago.} When he did breathe, it was swift, just enough to keep him moving, although he recalled coughing on the ashes more than once.

He ran towards the cry and found himself at a staircase, the upper stairs already charcoal. He climbed up as best he could and leaped over the old wood. Almost as soon as he had entered the house his eyes began to water and it made seeing nearly impossible. He was mostly working off the sound and heard the cry, which only seemed to be getting softer, to his left.

Bursting through the first door he saw, he found himself in a bathroom. The weak screams peaked and he rushed over to the tub and pulled open the curtain.

A girl, barely up to his kneecaps, was whimpering and blubbering in the tub, coughing weakly. She looked up to him with large eyes, shimmering with tears. Her voice was hoarse. {She had boarded herself up in the bathroom, filling up the tub with water, but the smoke as leaked through the cracks in the door, and she had no exit points to leave through once the fire had reached her door} He swiftly swooped her up and was relieved that she was so wet. Wet things are much harder to burn.

He turned and burst past the bathroom door, her head was buried in his shoulder as he told her to hold her breath. He ran back down the hallway to the staircase, which was more thoroughly burned than before.

By now he could hear the sirens and see steam as the firemen did their work. Stan knew all he had to do was get out and she would be fine {because his life wasn't worth crap, it didn't matter, not like hers.}

He would have to jump to get to the window he had shattered before.

So he did.

He jumped and when he stumbled he wrapped his arms around the girl, twisting in midair so she would land on him.

Landing on his back, Stan was stunned for a moment before realized, the _window was right there._ Pushing the girl away from his shoulder, where she was dutifully trying not to breath, he told her to run. To climb through the window. She nodded, her eyes filled with fear as she obediently picked herself up and ran towards the fragmented frame.

She clambered out and he sighed in relief. She would be fine.

Him on the other hand...

His leg was burning furiously, hence why he told her to run. He would have screamed as the flesh fell away because it _hurt_ , but it didn't seem all that important. His body was aching more than he had ever ached before, the adrenaline was quickly draining him, and landing on his back had left him immobile for a moment. His head was throbbing and his lungs burned. It hurt to move and it hurt to stay. Everything was _pain._

At least if he stayed the torment would end.

He woke up in a hospital three days later. Someone told him that the girl he had saved {Savanna, she was called.} had informed {what a brave child, so level-headed, Stan thought} someone that the "bwave skinny hero who smelled like fish". {What?} was still inside and a fireman had pulled him out, dousing his leg before it spread further up his body.

He had saved the girl, they told them. The authorities would never have been there in time.

 _I know._ Stan thought. He didn't say it, that would've been rude. In fact, he didn't say anything. A day after waking up, after stealing some spare bandages, he booked it out of the hospital before they could bill him. Even 'hero's' got bills. {He wondered who the girl's family was. Why was she...?

Who was he kidding? He got left home alone {Well, with Ford} all the time as a kid.}

Stan smiled at the memory, despite how traumatizing it had been, he was glad he could at least do _something_ right. He was about to turn away and actually take a shower (why was he wasting time reminiscing over past pain?) When he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him.

Crap.

* * *

 **Guys, I don't know what I'm doing so if this sucked or if future chapters suck please tell me and I'll just stop. Or burn it...**

 **Stan: Um...no. You can't burn this unless you throw your laptop in a fire, and it will still exist, technically...**

 **Ford: I am going to assume he is right, I haven't really *ahem* seen a laptop before this story thing you've dragged me into...**

 **Stan: Sixer, you have missed out. I'm gonna have Dipper and Mabel show you what a tablet is! That should be interesting...**

 **Ford: Well now I'm terrified. Gooday. *leaves***

 **Stan: Eh. Leave a review I guess? Don't let her burn her laptop...they're expensive.**


	4. Chapter 15

**You are so right. Don't walk into bathrooms without knocking, guys. My brother's do this to me all the time- they NEVER knock which might mean I'm venting using this as a plot point, but whatever. Let's go: Tw: Stan is skinny and scarred.  
**

 **Reference: Type in 'Murphy Stan pines' into your google bar and click images. Some skinny stan sketches should be the first thing there. They are the only one's I've found...(from the Murphy's law au)**

* * *

Stan stiffened, hands still clenching to his shirt, the borrowed {were they borrowed? Ford said something about them being 'his' which didn't make much sense...} pants hanging off his waist at an angle off his frail frame. He glanced into the mirror to see someone standing in the doorway- shocked into stillness. He closed his eyes before he could recognize who it was.

It didn't really matter- he knew who it was. The only person in the house that would stand and stare rather than shut the door- already used to seeing him so...vulnerable. Although- maybe not quite like this.

And it wasn't the cowboy.

He clenched his eyes down tighter as light footsteps drew closer. They were slow, deliberate. So much so that Stan didn't have to look to know when Ford was right behind him. He was ready for it when a hand traced over his right shoulder.

There were scars on his back- more words and symbols torn into his skin- the ones he refused to think about. He blinked his eyes open when he felt Ford's warm breath against his back.

"Ford?" Stan still didn't move.

"Stanley...are any of these fresh?" Ford's question was the logical one. Stan grimaced- Ford was trying to keep his cool. He never really did the whole 'emotional' thing very well.

Well, it wasn't his right to make it harder on his brother who was already being so nice to him. He didn't mean for this to happen- was the lock faulty on the door? He could have sworn he'd locked it. He sighed.

"No. Well, I guess it depends on your definition of fresh."

Had he been looking {he couldn't bear to look Ford in the eyes at this point, even if it was just Ford's reflection} he would have seen how Ford flinched at what his words suggested. These weren't old news. They were...normal for him.

"Um...do they require tending?" Ford's hand had stopped tracing the lines skillfully carved into his flesh and was resting on his shoulder- where the bone was sticking through his skin. He could pass as emaciated at this point. The only thing that kept him from being nothing but bone was a thin, yet tough layer of muscle he managed to keep despite severe starvation and cold nights spent shivering in the darkness.

His face burned- the fact of it all catching up with him. He was so...small. He didn't even realize how bad it had gotten. He recalled Ford teasing him for being the fat twin- he remembered gloating that at least _he_ had some meat on his bones, that Ford needed to eat more, to take care of himself.

Somehow those roles had switched and he had no idea when it had happened and it set his mind spinning. He began chuckling- the sound hoarse and dry- he still hadn't eaten or drunken much of anything- having fallen asleep at the table last night. Ford's hand tightened it's grip as his laughing set him bowling over, his hand keeping Stan upright. The laughter soon fell into harsh, dry coughs and he nearly fell to his knees. His eyes watered and his ears rang.

"Stanley!"

The coughing died down after a moment and Stan was forced to look up into Ford's face, which was drawn in concern that made Stan's stomach twist guiltily- he didn't notice the few tears that had escaped him, falling from his cheek to the ground.

Seems Ford was keeping it together better than he was after all.

Ford lifted his chin so Stan was looking at him. Using his thumb, he wiped away the tears and Stan realized he'd been crying. The thought made the hopeless feeling rise and swell inside and he stifled a sob.

"F-Ford. I ca-can't-"

Suddenly Stan was enveloped in warmth, his head buried into his brother's shoulder. He had to force himself not to react- not to lash out. This wasn't dangerous.

It didn't _feel_ dangerous. And now somehow Stan was getting hugged for the second time in ten years and he couldn't hold back anymore- ten years worth of emotions spilling out of him. Ten years of loneliness- crushed hope- physical and mental wounds that would never leave. It all broke free like water from a dam.

The entire time, Ford held him close, swaying them both as they stood and when Stan couldn't stand any more he walked them both to the edge of the tub and sat there.

No more tears fell from his eyes- he didn't have enough water in his system for that. The only thing giving away his pain was the deep, conflicted, and confused sobs. How had this happened? How had he gotten so far from...civilized society to end up like this?

Maybe he wasn't capable of living after all. He was too broken- too busted up to progress from his fallen state.

The entire time he tried to sort through his thoughts, Ford didn't let go. The longer he was there the more aware Stan became and realized Ford was saying something, whispering comforts. His breath evened out further as he focused less on his pain and more and more on Ford's familiar voice. It was steady and smooth- unlike his own.

Even his voice was broken. He gritted his teeth as he tried to ignore his thoughts and tune into his brother's mantra.

"Shh...I'm not leaving you. Not again, not ever. It's going to be alright, shh. It's going to be okay, I swear, I'm not leaving, I promise. I-" He stopped when Stan started moving away. Leaning away from the embrace.

"Stanley?"

Stan glanced towards the floor and back up into his brother's eyes. Ford's eyes that shone with sincerity that made Stan's throat choke up again.

He'd really meant it. Stan swallowed, "Ya really mean those things, don't ya?"

Ford sat up straighter, "Of course I do! You- don't you believe me? I'm not letting you leave my side ever again!" Ford smirked and moved to punch his arm but stopped himself. What? Did he think he was too weak for even their playful banter? Stan instead pushed on Ford's shoulder, trying to lighten the mood- which elicited a smile from Ford. He rubbed his arm playfully.

"Ow," Ford snickered when Stan rolled his eyes.

"I know I didn't really hurt ya."

"Maybe you just don't know your own strength."

"Maybe ya-" Stan was cut off when they both looked up at the doorway.

Ford had left the door wide open. Stan's eyes widened- he still didn't have his shirt on and Fiddleford was _right there._ Ford was trying to mouth something to his colleague but Fiddleford ignored him, staring right at Stan with a blank look.

Time had seemed to go still- their very breaths slowing down. Moments passed, the air itself was filled with an intensity one couldn't really describe, thick and heavy with tension.

Fiddleford blinked. He shook his head- freeing himself from his trance. Before either of the twins could do anything Fiddleford scowled at them.

"Is this wha' ya been doin' instead ah eatin'? I know ya didn' eat las' night. Now you hurry up an' git down there ba'fore I make ya." Fiddleford, just as he was about to leave, turned back and gave them both a small smile before disappearing down the hallway. Soup for breakfast didn't really sound all that bad.

Stan was left stunned as he watched Ford's friends retreating back. The only who looked somewhat unperturbed was Ford who seemed to be used to his friend at this point. He moved his gaze from the doorway where Fiddleford had left from and glanced at his brother. He chuckled.

"I understand. He has...well. Really good priorities to be honest. He won't- I mean. He won't ask before you say he can..." Ford's eyes softened in sadness as his eyes flickered to the hand Stan had over his the scar on his shoulder.

If Ford knew anything about scars, he could swear that it was from a bullet.

Stan took a shuddering breath and sighed. His eyes downcast. After a second or so he looked up and grinned sheepishly.

"Uhh...yeah. Look, thanks for...everything, but can I take a shower now? I don't think sittin' here is gonna make me reek less."

Ford's eyes widened and he laughed. "Stan, I'm so sorry." Ford got up and made for the door, but turned back. "Just come downstairs when you're finished- I'm sure Fiddleford will already have some food for you. Then we can talk."

Stan's smile seemed to freeze on his face at the words 'talk' but he nodded and Ford left. Stan sighed. The worst thing about going uphill is that you can go downhill all over again.

He really didn't want that to go back downhill- he wasn't sure he could survive. Not again.

A determined glint found it's way to his eye and Stan made a promise to himself. No more going downhill. He would make himself useful. Get a real job- Stan refused to be a burden.

Not again.

* * *

 **Hehe.**

 **Stan *eating a sandwich*: wha' I miss?**

 **Ford *quickly hides story*: Nothing! Nothing at all- just some scientific research papers I was posting on this internet thing the kids showed me.**

 **Stan *eyes narrowing*: Yeah, sure Poindexter.**


End file.
